To see a living thing,
a badly damaged
thing, and to fail

to understand
how life still catches
hold of it and clings

without falling through –
like water falling
through a bowl

more fissure than bowl.
Just as a bowl
must be waterproof,

a body must be
lifeproof, we assume,
as if a life were bound

by laws of gravity,
always in danger
of escaping.

But then there is
this olive tree –
if tree is still

the right word for this
improbable arrangement
of bark and twig

and leaf – this tree
ripped in three pieces
down to the ground.

No longer a column,
instead a triple
helix of spiraling

bark verticals
sketching the outline
where the tree

used to be. No heartwood,
very little wood
left at all, the exposed

surfaces green
with moss, dandelions
filling the foot-wide

gap at its base. And still
the tree thrives,
taking its place

in the formal allée
that edges this gravel road,
sending out leafy shoots

and unripe olives
in the prescribed shapes
and quantities.

Lizard haven, beetle
home. I was wrong
when I told you

life starts at the center
and radiates out.
There is another

form of life, one
that draws sustenance
from the extremities:

Each slim leaf
slots itself
into the blue air;

each capillary root
stitches itself
to the soil.

Together these
small adhesions
can hold up,

can nourish
the much-diminished
weight of the whole.

I won’t lie to you.
It will hurt.
It will force you

to depend on those
contingent things,
those peripheral

things you have
always professed
to despise.

But it will suffice
at least
to keep you alive.